Mujo
by branewurms
Summary: Three ficlets involving the Medicine Seller and the passing of time. Slightly MS/Kayo.
1. Kajou

Kajou

It is not linear; nothing about it is linear. A circle is closer to the proper shape, but what is a circle but a line connected end to end? It is not a circle either.

The closest one might come to understanding is the spiral of a snail's shell, coil encircling endless coil. But one does not travel as a single point around and around. All coils exist simultaneously; otherwise, it would not be a spiral. There are no single points of reference, but for the relative singularity of perception.

And in whichever direction one's perception might travel, outward or inward, it will always arrive back at the center.

Mortal lives are so very short. A mortal has not the frame of reference to feel its own existence coiling around upon itself. It dies and is reborn, never sensing the repetition of its own actions. Mortals know only how to look in front or behind; side-to-side escapes their notice entirely. People reflect each other like mirrors winking in and out within a sea of life and death, growth and decay. Everything changes; nothing changes.

His reflection shines out of their eyes, always the same.

It is not hard for him to stretch out his arms and brush his fingertips against his own; it is not hard for him to slide between the thin walls, to look out from a different (the same, only a little smaller, a little larger) coil. He feels time coursing through him, and he flows. Always, one arrives back at the center.

The country has opened its borders. It was inevitable. Borders can never really remain closed, not a man's, nor a country's. There is no outside to close them against. The invisible threads of fate tangle across all time, across all borders, inescapable by the smallest fish in the sea, by the highest god in the heavens. He is as tangled up as the rest of them. The black ships have sailed into the nation's collective memory; have always been there in memory, tall and dark and ambiguous.

Resentment festers. Man's inherent nature will never change. He has much work to do, in these turbulent times.

Always, one arrives back at the center.


	2. Mono no Aware

Mono no Aware

An old woman becomes young again, right before his eyes. The wrinkles of skin melt into a smooth surface, supple and dark; her voice changes, stretches, the cracks and infirmities washed away from the vibrance it once held.

"I guess I just couldn't forget, huh?" she says, looking almost embarassed. "I didn't mean to cling on like that. I just - I wanted to say, just once, '_let me go with you_.'"

"I thought you wanted love," he says. "A husband. Children."

"Yes. Yes, I did. And I had them. But you weren't there."

"I could not have given you those things."

She laughs, her eyes glistening. "Oh, I know that. Even then, I knew that. It's why I never said it. What girl wants to go traipsing about the country looking for murderous spirits?" She laughs again, sniffs, wipes a tear from her cheek. A smell of burnt cinnamon - she knows without looking what stands behind her. If she closes her eyes but a moment, she fancies she feels a brown hand glowing with gold, reaching out to touch her hair, gently, so gently; but it is probably only a fancy.

"It hasn't been a bad life," she says. "I wasn't unhappy. I just... couldn't forget."

"You could not die."

"Not until I saw you again." She smiles. "It's all right. I'm sorry I had to trouble you over such a little thing."

"Not little," he says, reaching out to touch her cheek as the sword falls, silently. "Not little."

An old woman frees her last breath as his painted lips press to her brow, the creases like a map of time beneath them. Slowly, he straightens, lifts his medicine box onto his back, and leaves.


	3. Unmei

Unmei

The aging seamstress once told him: "It's so strange - I keep having this feeling, like we've met before."

"Of course, Kayo-san," he had replied, his lips quirking. "We have met on several occasions. Had you forgotten?"

Now she is a seamstress with lean and calloused hands; now she is the wife of a samurai, well-cared for and stifled; now she is a whore in Shimabara, coy and sophisticated; now she is the son of a potter, earnest and gentle. She dies of old age, of small pox, the victim of a murder, trampled by a horse in the street. Sometimes she is a man, but usually a woman; sometimes she is a noble, but usually a peasant. The same woman looks out of a myriad different eyes.

Occasionally they lie together, their hair tangling like the threads that bind them. Her flesh always tastes of sweet spice on his tongue.

This actress is a different woman; this actress is the same woman.

The actress tells him: "It's so strange - I keep having this feeling, like we've met before."

"Of course, Chiyo-san," he replies, his lips quirking. The film crew is gone; the set is empty and hollow; the mononoke has been destroyed. She may yet achieve her dream, but not in this place, not at this time. He can see by the tightness in her eyes that she blames him, just a little. "We met on a train, not half a year ago. Had you forgotten?"

"No," she says, shaking her head impatiently. "That's not what I mean. I mean - before that."

"Well," he murmurs, drawing the word out. "Perhaps we have met... sometime before."

Her lips purse and she stares at him intently, as if to see through to all the things he does not say. He bows low to her before turning to leave; he is done here.

"Until next time," he says.


End file.
